Harper didn’t believe that for a second, but he wasn’t about to waste time arguing. Instead, he opened the folder and flipped idly through the pages. “There’s a lot of uncomplimentary stuff in here,” he said. “Flores is just the tip of the iceberg. For instance, a man called Steve Oliphant signed a sworn statement the day after the incident in which he accused you of physically assaulting Jacob Zuma.”
Harper looked up to see if Kealey grasped the full gravity of that statement. Judging by his indifferent expression, either he didn’t understand the serious nature of the charges leveled against him or he just didn’t care. Harper knew that he was dealing with the latter scenario. Kealey understood perfectly well what he had done, and he clearly wasn’t about to apologize for it. “He accused you of assaulting the South African president, ” Harper repeated. “I assume you can see the problem that causes.”
“If it does create a problem, it’s mine, not yours,” Kealey pointed out. “Besides, why does it matter? Who cares what this guy is accusing me of?”
“It matters because the aide says that you—”
“I saved that man’s life, John. Zuma himself says as much on page eighty-four of that so-called report, so the aide can bitch and moan as loud as he wants. I thought you said you read the whole thing.”
“I thought you said you didn’t read it at all.”
Kealey didn’t respond. Harper closed the folder and pushed it out of the way.
“It also says that after the firefight in downtown Johannesburg, you returned to Kerk Street in time to pull two of your teammates, Alex Whysall and Russell Stiles, from their vehicle, which was knocked out of commission by an IED in front of the courthouse. Both men credit you with saving their lives.”
Kealey shrugged. “Whysall and Stiles were marines before they signed up with Blackwater. They would have done the same for me. That’s what Flores didn’t understand, and that’s why he’ll have a hard time finding anyone else willing to work with him.”
“He’ll have an easier time than you,” Harper pointed out. “The South Africans weren’t the only ones to compile a full report. At the prompting of the State Department, Blackwater carried out its own investigation. The team as a whole was cleared of any serious wrongdoing, but you weren’t so lucky. The head office basically laid the blame for the entire incident at your feet. They accused you, among other things, of exposing your principal to unnecessary risk by ordering your driver to stop in a hostile area.”
“This isn’t news to me. I was there, and I know what happened. What are you getting at?”
“I’m wondering why you didn’t stand your ground. Why you let them pin it all on you.”
“Why would I fight it?” Kealey asked. “I took that job only as a favor to Paul Owen in the first place. Given Zuma’s high profile and the nature of the threat, he asked me to run the detail, and I accepted with several conditions. The first was that I didn’t have to sign a contract with Blackwater. The second was that I had complete control over the way I ran my PSD. Since he was willing to meet both conditions, I took the job. Believe me, I didn’t want it that much to begin with. Getting kicked off the team is no big loss to me.”
Harper took a second to break that statement down. Paul Owen had been Ryan Kealey’s commanding officer during the younger man’s time with the 3rd Special Forces Group. Later the two men had served together in the 1st SFOD-D, otherwise known as Delta Force. While they were stationed at Bragg, Owen was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel and Kealey to major, the rank he retired with in 2001. Over the last few years Owen had been “sheep-dipped,” or “borrowed,” by the CIA to take part in covert operations abroad on several occasions. Most recently, he’d been involved with the recovery of the secretary of state in Pakistan. He and Kealey had worked on that assignment together, butting heads more than once in the process.
Harper had been as surprised as anyone when word trickled down eight months earlier that Owen, after twenty-two years in the army, had decided to retire as a lieutenant-colonel, even though he was scheduled to receive a long-overdue promotion to O-6. The reason for his abrupt departure became readily apparent when he signed up with Blackwater Worldwide less than a month after separating from the armed forces. Unlike most of the former SF operators who signed up with the company, though, Owen did not find himself back on the front lines. Instead, he took a high-level executive post at Blackwater North, the recently established training facility in Mount Carroll, Illinois, where he currently served as program director. Essentially, he was now in charge of the entire facility.
It didn’t surprise Harper that one of Owen’s first acts with the company had been to actively recruit Ryan Kealey for Zuma’s detail in Africa. It would have seemed like a smart move right from the start, and had he been in Owen’s position, Harper might well have done the same thing. Having a man with Kealey’s reputation on the payroll would only boost Blackwater’s already sterling reputation as the leading security firm in the world. Nor did it surprise him that Kealey had elected to fall on his sword rather than allow Owen to take the blame for what happened in Johannesburg. Harper was sure that Owen had tried to talk him out of it, but the retired colonel had more to lose than Kealey did, and Kealey would have been the first to remind him of that fact. Harper couldn’t help but wonder what Paul Owen regretted more—being forced to dump the blame on Kealey’s head or recruiting the man in the first place. It was a question worth considering, he knew, as there was a good chance he’d be asking himself the very same thing in the near future.
“So what are your plans now?” Harper asked carefully. “Assuming, of course, that the National Prosecuting Authority decides to overlook your role in the death of six uniformed SAPS officers, where will you go from here?”
Kealey leaned back in his seat. “That sounds more like a warning than a question.”
Harper shrugged. “Zuma is under a lot of pressure to hold someone accountable, Ryan. Remember, the South African people didn’t see the attack on the motorcade. All they saw was the aftermath, and they’re not exactly happy with the way it turned out. You’d be surprised at how many people were behind those six cops you killed. Now those people are screaming for blood. There’s no guarantee that Zuma won’t buckle under the weight of public opinion, if only to stave off the inevitable for a few more months, and if he does, there’s a good chance you’ll end up facing the sharp end of the stick. You can see why that would be a problem for us. The idea of you taking the stand in the Pretoria High Court does not make the director comfortable.”
“It won’t get that far.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Harper persisted. “Because I have to tell you, if it does get that far, the Agency will have no choice but to disavow. Do you understand that? If and when the NPA decides to file charges, you’ll be on your own. I won’t be in a position to help you.”
“So you’d prefer to help me now. Is that it?”
Harper had been doing his best to ignore the younger man’s combative attitude, but he could no longer contain his rising frustration. “Ryan, why are you making this so difficult? I am trying to help you, for Christ’s sake. I’m offering you a way out, and if you had any sense at all, you’d listen to what I’m telling—”
“I don’t need your help, John, and I didn’t ask you to come here. Besides, I know how this works. I can see through your bullshit. Maybe I couldn’t before, but I can now. You wouldn’t be offering to bail me out unless you wanted something in return, so why don’t you do us both a favor and get to the point?”
Harper exhaled sharply. Okay, Allison, here we go. God forgive us both, he thought, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the first photograph. He looked to make sure it was the right one, then placed it faceup on the table and pushed it across with two fingers. Kealey looked down at it but did not react.
“You recognize her?”
“Yes,” Kealey said. He was still looking at the photograph, which featured a dark-haired woman in
her midtwenties. The aid worker was surrounded by a cluster of dark-skinned children, most of whom were badly undernourished but smiling broadly regardless, just like their benefactor. To anyone who didn’t know how the story ended, it probably would have seemed like a heartwarming image. “Lily Durant.”
“I’m guessing you know what happened to her.”
“I know.” Kealey studied the photo, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tensing slightly. It was a nearly imperceptible change in his expression, but Harper, a self-taught expert in kinesics, or nonverbal communication, caught it at once. The younger man looked up and pushed the photograph back across the table. “Is that what this is about? Did Brenneman send you?”
Harper looked at him. “I’d be out of a job if he had any inkling I was here.”
For the first time Kealey was left without a ready response. “So why are you here?”
Harper slumped back in his seat and let out another slow breath. “You were right,” he finally admitted. “About what you said before. I need your help. But that isn’t the only reason I came. Give me five minutes to explain, okay? You won’t regret it.”
Kealey shook his head and looked away, staring absently at a couple sitting a few tables away. Then he returned his attention to Harper, a wan smile on his face. “I always regret it, John. Every time you come looking for me. I don’t see why it should be any different this time.”
“You’re going to want to hear what I have to say. I know you don’t trust me. But trust me on that one point. Five minutes and you’ll know everything.”
Kealey shook his head again, but he didn’t make a move to leave. Harper knew better than to break the awkward silence, though he was sorely tempted to do just that. As he waited for the younger man’s response, he thought back to what he had seen a moment earlier. The way Kealey’s face had changed with the mention of the president’s niece confirmed what Harper had known all along—and what Allison Dearborn had reinforced in his mind. His best chance at getting Kealey back lay with Lily Durant. Or very specifically, with what had happened to her.
Allison had given him what she’d called her “psychobabble one-oh-one” on the different analytical terms for what drove men in his line of work—a rescue personality, instinctive-cooperative behavior, the Jungian hero model. There had been those, and others he couldn’t remember. But when you cut through the obtuse scholarly language, she’d explained, it came down to them being core idealists.
It isn’t so unusual. There’s a reason the Superman character has been popular with boys for almost a century. He embodies their desire to be identified as strong and helpful. And some of them actually grow up to be that way.
That was Allison, Harper thought. He respected her ability to keep things simple. Perhaps more importantly, he liked her because of it. And thank heaven he’d walked into her office, and not some other shrink’s, after he was shot. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, not even his wife, Harper knew he would have never followed through on their first counseling session if she’d flaunted her doctorates and rained jargon on his head.
Harper well understood that Ryan Kealey was not the type to let the rape and murder of an innocent woman go unpunished. He believed he was supposed to be saving lives and righting wrongs. But whether you were a cop, a fireman, a law enforcement agent, or a surgeon, you had to maintain an emotional firewall, a hard line of defense against the stress and disappointment that accompanied those inevitable losses.
How had Allison put it? Bad guys get away. Patients die. Loss comes with the job when you’re in the business of saving lives.
The problems often came when someone like Kealey assumed personal responsibility for events that were beyond his ability to control. When the expectations he placed on himself collided with reality, and he started measuring himself against failure and loss rather than success. Then every failure became a blow to his sense of worth, and as they compiled, they led to a massive guilt complex.
The upshot was frustration, bitterness, rage, and sometimes a blurring or complete disintegration of behavioral boundaries.
Harper supposed he should have understood what he had in Ryan Kealey when he’d first read his biographical data. Years before they’d met, before Callie Palmer and Naomi Kharmai, when Kealey was with the 1st SFOD-Delta, the death of an innocent young girl in Sarajevo had led him to actions that went far beyond—no, Harper had to be honest with himself—that shattered any acceptable standards of conduct. The punishment he’d visited upon the perpetrators, a group of Serbs in the local militia, had nearly landed him in a military prison for the rest of his life. Instead, he’d been quietly shifted out of that theater of operations.
Harper knew a little of how it felt wanting to be Superman, and admitted it was a large part of his connection to Kealey. But he’d always had a healthy pragmatic streak to keep his ideals in check. Kealey, on the other hand, had his sense of justice, his moral code, and no tempering characteristics. It was at the core of what made him special . . . and what made him a dangerous risk.
And, Harper thought with a lack of regret he found almost stunning, what may just allow me to push his buttons. Regardless of the anger Kealey was feeling toward Harper and the Agency as a whole, he would want a hand in tracking down the people responsible for Lily Durant’s death. Or so Harper hoped and prayed. He was banking everything on it.
Kealey had been gazing across the room for what seemed a very long time before he turned back to look at him. As if on cue, he said, “Is this about Durant?”
“Yes,” Harper replied. He felt a sense of quiet satisfaction that he’d gotten it right. He really and truly was one calculating son of a bitch. “In a way.”
“Don’t jerk me around, John. Is it about finding the man who killed her or not?”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Much more. Will you hear me out?”
Kealey shook his head again, but it wasn’t a refusal. Harper waited patiently. Finally, Kealey turned his attention away from the couple to look the older man right in the eyes.
“I’ll listen, but that’s all. I’ll listen for her.”
And not for you, was the unspoken sentiment.
Harper ignored it. He felt a surge of relief, though he managed to keep it from showing on his face. He still didn’t have what he’d come for, but at least he knew that he hadn’t flown 8,000 miles for nothing. He now had the chance to get Kealey back on board, and for the moment, that would have to suffice.
CHAPTER 12
PRETORIA
“So how much do you already know?” Harper asked, taking a second to glance at his watch.
It was now past eight in the evening, but the bar was still remarkably quiet. Aside from the couple at a nearby table and a few men hunched over their beers on the far side of the room, the place was empty. If it hadn’t been for Springsteen’s “Born to Run” coming over the speakers at a moderate volume, the room would have been just as quiet as it was deserted. Harper was grateful for the solitude and the music, which served to cover their conversation, though he found himself wondering what had drawn the younger man to the bar in the first place. There didn’t seem to be much to recommend it . . . but then it occurred to Harper that right there might have been the basis of its appeal for Kealey. A place like this was indistinguishable from countless other places like it, and that very possibly suited his desires—to simply be somewhere, unnoticed, out of sight.
Harper suppressed a frown. Or maybe he was overthinking and Kealey just liked the goddamned beer on tap.
Kealey, meanwhile, had shrugged in response to his question. “What I know is basically just what the networks reported. The Janjaweed raided the camp and Durant was killed, along with forty or so refugees. A doctor called it in, some guy from UNICEF, and the embassy sent some people out to identify her body. The ambassador flew out there himself, if I remember correctly. Al-Bashir denied involvement and promised to find the people responsible, but nothing came of it. No surprise there.”
Harper nodded again, sat back in his seat, and lifted his scotch. He’d just walked up to the bar for a second round, but even though he’d offered to pick up the tab, Kealey had refused a drink. Harper knew that the younger man’s newfound abstinence didn’t mean a thing and was probably based entirely on his presence. Earlier in the day he’d asked the SF captain in charge of Kealey’s security about the American’s drinking habits. The question was spurred by the captain’s revelation that Kealey had visited the Elephant & Castle on five of the last eight nights. It had immediately set off Harper’s internal alarm.
Unfortunately, the South African’s answer had done nothing to alleviate his concerns. Kealey had run up quite a tab on the nights in question, and even though he seemed to handle it well, at least according to the captain, Harper was less worried about the drinking than he was about what was causing it, and wouldn’t have needed Allison’s input to know it was a manifestation of Kealey’s overbearing guilt. He had not been able to forgive himself for the choice he’d made in Pakistan the previous year, the one that indirectly led to Naomi’s death. And he’d been punishing himself ever since. The heavy drinking was only a signpost, a symptom of much deeper issues.
Harper couldn’t help but wonder how this internal conflict would affect his ability to carry out the task at hand, assuming he was willing to take it on to begin with. But it was just a passing thought. In for a dollar, in for a pound. Of flesh.
The deputy director let none of this show on his face. Setting down his glass, he said, “So you think Bashir ordered the attack. You think he wanted her dead.”
“Actually, no. I don’t think that at all.”
Harper supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d come to send Kealey into the fire. But he’d also missed him—and the chance to test his thoughts against Kealey’s razor-sharp perceptiveness. “Why not?”
“It doesn’t make sense, for one thing,” Kealey said. “He would know it could only give the ICC and the United States a common agenda . . . and a sound justification to act on it. Russia would kick and scream at anyone taking any unilateral action against Bashir. So would the Chinese. But with the World Court already declaring him a criminal, and American blood on his hands, that’s about all they could do.”
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